And a photograph.
It was the photo taken by Sebastian’s ruthless agent. Graham Garfield had been there that awful day when she was led away from the movie set by two police officers. She looked a wreck, her face tearstained and handcuffs on her wrists. The hashtag attached to the photo was damning: #SebastianStalker.
Her eyes drifted closed. She wasn’t a stalker, but she’d signed a nondisclosure agreement to keep silent about anything having to do with Sebastian Bell. That NDA meant she wasn’t even free to comment on this photo.
Could she break the NDA? Doing so would cost a fortune in legal fees and she’d probably lose anyway. Sebastian was rich, powerful, and universally adored. He had the power of the studios protecting him. He had his ruthless agent protecting him. Anything she tried to say in her own defense would be like shouting into the wind.
How many other photos did Graham Garfield have in his arsenal? The police officers who escorted her off the set that day took her to a trailer where she’d been finger-printed and photographed. Did they have any of those humiliating pictures?
Wait . . . Sebastian had signed his own NDA regarding this incident. Whoever leaked this photo, it probably wasn’t Sebastian. It was almost certainly his agent.
Everything felt very cold. Goose pimples raised on her arms as she hugged them to herself. Why did they have to blast the air-conditioning in here? She glanced around the reference room. A summer student on the other end of the room was scrolling through his phone. Was he reading about her? What if paparazzi were waiting outside her home? She probably shouldn’t even drive a car in this frazzled condition. All she could do was sit at the table and listen to her phone vibrate with an endless series of texts and emails.
Each vibration felt like the sting of a dart. Whatever hope she had of discovering something amazing at the Roost would be overshadowed by the scandal currently sending shockwaves through social media. Soon it would hit Instagram, and the traditional media wouldn’t be far behind.
Fear kept her paralyzed as she sat at the table, watching more texts and emails flood her phone, some from people she knew, others from strangers. She didn’t have the strength to open any of them.
Until Brandon’s name popped up in a text message. He would be safe.
She clicked on the message and read:I’m sorry this is happening to you. Is there anything I can do to help?
She sagged, then focused on calming her nerves so that her fingers would stop shaking long enough for her to send a text.
I could use a shoulder, she keyed in and sent. His response arrived quickly:
Where are you?
The library.
On my way. It was a Tuesday, and since Brandon practically lived in his campus office during the workweek, he ought to be here within minutes.
Sure enough, Brandon’s lean, lanky form soon crossed into the library. He wore a sport coat, a loosely knotted tie, and a concerned expression as he spotted her on the far side of the reference room. His half-pained smile of compassion completely sapped the last of her strength as he walked toward her.
He lifted a brow and cast a dubious expression at her cell phone as it continued to vibrate. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s a torture device.”
“Then turn it off,” he gently suggested. “Let’s get out of here and go somewhere we can talk.” The silence of the library meant their voices could be overheard, and she stood to follow wherever he led.
The William & Mary campus during summer might be among the most beautiful thousand acres on earth. Red-brick walkways meandered across the greens where stately colonial buildings exuded symmetry, tradition, and understated elegance. Walled gardens and courtyards abounded, and the sparse student population meant it was easy to find a place far from prying eyes.
Brandon chose a bench beneath the impressive limbs of an ancient white mulberry tree. Every muscle felt heavy as she sat on the opposite side of the bench, reluctant to meet his eyes, but he would be a safe person on whom to unburden these roiling emotions.
“Am I right that this was the reason you returned early from England?”
She nodded. “I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement, but that only stops me from letting any of this leak to the press. I can tell you what happened, but do you promise not to let itgo further? I can be accused of breaking the agreement if word leaks, and these people are vicious.”
“You can trust me, Alice.”
“I met Sebastian Bell two years ago on a train from Strasbourg to Berlin,” she began.
It all seemed so innocent. She’d been in Strasbourg because her father was delivering a speech to the European Union. Afterward, she wanted to spend a few days in Amsterdam before heading back to Virginia. She rode the train with an embroidery project on her lap—a re-creation of Monet’s garden brought to life in colorful threads. Intricate stitches formed clusters of lilacs and daffodils beside a pond, all beneath an azure sky. She didn’t even look up as the train jolted lightly and a man wearing sunglasses took the seat opposite her.
It was a cloudy day with no need for sunglasses, so she mostly ignored him as she continued plying her needle to finish the cluster of tulips.
“I don’t know how you have the patience for it,” the man said. His voice was a combination of wry admiration and pure, smooth masculine appeal. She met his gaze as he peered at her over the top of his sunglasses, and that was when she recognized him. Sebastian Bell, England’s foremost romantic lead actor in a dozen historical movies and miniseries.
“I find it calming,” she said. He asked to see the project better, and she handed the embroidery hoop to him. When he asked her to teach him, she did, and he stitched the world’s sloppiest daffodil nestled beside the pond.
